


I Might Be Wrong

by ekbe_vile



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Cheating, Fallen Angel Castiel, Infidelity, M/M, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-10
Updated: 2015-05-10
Packaged: 2018-03-29 22:05:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3912316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ekbe_vile/pseuds/ekbe_vile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam didn't feel too badly, leaving Dean after the Apocalypse...it was easier, knowing that his brother had Castiel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Might Be Wrong

**Author's Note:**

> This story was originally posted on LiveJournal on April 16th, 2011. It's a post-Season 5 AU in which Team Free Will has successfully averted the apocalypse, and go on about their lives. It was written for a fanworks exchange.

It’s almost 3AM when Sam’s phone comes to life on the corner of his desk, Castiel’s caller ID lighting up the screen. Sam grabs at the phone, crushes it to his ear, biting down on the panic in his voice because Castiel _doesn’t make social calls._ “Cas?”

There’s a huff of air, a startled breath on the other line, and then Castiel’s voice, tired and rough on the tail end of a sinus infection: “I’m outside. Will you buzz me in?” 

Sam’s not sure what's more surprising: the fact that Castiel is here in Santa Monica, or that he understands what “buzz” means. "Yeah, uh..." he stammers. "Just gimme one second."

He will deny it, later, but he spends the time in between hitting the buzzer and Castiel's knock at the door flailing from one end of the apartment to the other, picking up anything he can reach - dirty laundry, newspapers, food-encrusted dishes. He's never exactly been a neat freak, but at least when he was living on the road he never stayed in one place long enough to accumulate too much junk. 

Now it's everywhere, and Sam stands in the middle of the living room, looking around the disaster that is his apartment in newly realized mortification. Then he's jumping out of his skin at the sharp _rap-rap-rap_ at the door and the sudden battering ram of a memory: Castiel, angel of the Lord, staring at Sam's extended hand as though it were the last thing in the world he'd ever deign to grasp.

And then Castiel is standing in the doorway, wearing a faded hoodie beneath his cracked and battered motorcycle jacket, duffel slung over his shoulder and hand in a cast. He looks a wreck: dark circles under bloodshot eyes, a fading bruise like fingerprints on his throat. He stands there like a vampire, waiting to be invited in.

Sam twitches at the thought, but before he can speak an invitation, Castiel crosses the threshold and tosses his bag in the general direction of the couch. "Do you have any beer?" he asks, stepping past Sam into the kitchenette.

Sam stammers. "Heineken, in the fridge."

Castiel pulls a face, but doesn't complain. He returns with two beers - one for himself, one for Sam - but when he goes to twist off the cap, he's stopped by his cast. Castiel's shoulders slump as he extends the bottle to Sam. "Will you?"

Sam stares for a moment, worried about how the familiar defeat in Castiel's posture puts him at ease. "Sure," he says, taking the bottle and breaking the seal with a practiced twist. "No problem."

They settle into the couch, weak springs and gravity pulling them together in the center. Sam wants to ask where Dean is - knows Castiel would have told him outright if something had happened to his brother, but can't shake the low, uneasy feeling in his gut. 

When the Apocalypse ended and Sam decided to go back to school, there'd been no question about who Castiel would follow. And at the time, Sam was glad for that – it made leaving Dean easier, knowing that he wouldn't be alone. But now he's not sure, sipping beers with an ex-angel, gaze sliding sideways to follow the curl of Castiel's hair over his ears – now he feels like he might have made a mistake, leaving.

He gestures with his beer. "What happened to your hand?"

"Ghost," Castiel explains, staring off across the room to Sam's desk, to his old laptop, the pile of textbooks and empty energy drinks.

"Does it hurt?"

"The doctor gave me something for it, but Dean..."

Dean is still trying to stop Zachariah's future from becoming reality. Even though Sam never said yes, even though the Devil is back in the Cage...Castiel is still fallen, more human than angel, twitchy and vulnerable in his skin. Sam knows his brother, but he knows Castiel now, too. 

"You want an aspirin?"

"Thank you, Sam. I am all right."

Sam's heartbeat skips unexpectedly in his chest at the way Castiel's lips shape a smile around his name. The expression is unfamiliar on the angel's ordinarily pensive face – it's new and exhilarating and Sam doubts anyone would fault him for wanting to see it again.

*

By 4 AM they're both drunk and slouched low on the sofa, laughing and pawing at each other and bitching about shit in a way that feels so _normal_ it's downright _surreal._ Sam has forgotten all about staying up late to cram for tomorrow's exam, too distracted by the way Castiel's hipbones peek out above the waist of his jeans, the way his shirt slides up as he twists sideways to drape his legs across Sam's lap. Castiel used to be a grumpy, unpleasant drunk, but without the weight of the Apocalypse hanging over their heads, Sam finds him much more companionable. 

"I'm sorry I called you an abomination," Castiel says, sliding his bare foot up Sam's chest until his toes splay out over the clavicle. 

Sam grabs Castiel's ankle, but doesn't try to push it away – just holds it, his thumb running under the ridge of bone and over a patch of dry skin. "Are you reading my mind?" he asks. "Or am I...that obvious?"

Castiel's smile is bittersweet. They still haven't figured out just how much of his angelic power remains, haven't had time to perform tests and experiments to measure the trace amounts of mojo that still stick to his human body, so questions like Sam's are still delicate. 

"Will you take it the wrong way," Castiel begins, "if I say that you are predictable?"

Sam frowns a little. "I used to surprise you."

"I know you better, now. I expect to be surprised."

Sam doesn't even think about it – he lifts Castiel's foot from his chest, pulls it toward his face and licks a teasing path up the arch. 

And Castiel gasps at the sensation, his mouth falling open, pupils blackening the blue of his eyes. "Sam..." he tries, but his voice is suddenly hoarse and unsteady as Sam works his tongue between his toes, making them curl.

"And now?" Sam murmurs against the soft pad of Castiel's foot. 

Castiel stares at him, but there's no resistance in his expression, nothing to suggest he doesn't want this. And if Sam's honest with himself, _he's_ wanted this for a long time – wanted Castiel under him, all long angles and firm muscle – wanted to lick and bite and savor the taste of his brother's angel.

But that was the problem – Castiel was _Dean's_ , as precious and protected as the Impala, and Sam knew without having to be told that he wasn't allowed to touch. 

And that made it worse – because Castiel was good and pure and unattainable, like the promise of peace, of a normal life, of forgiveness.

Except now Castiel is here with Sam, not Dean, and if he's a little dirty, a little rough around the edges since his fall, that doesn't change what he is. Because he might not be able to fly, he might not be able to burn demons out of their bodies with a touch or heal mortal wounds, but at his core he is still _Castiel_ , alien grace burning bright where a human's soul would reside.

Sam uses his hold on Castiel's ankle to pull him closer, tugging until the angel is flat on his back on the couch cushions, legs splayed helplessly around Sam's waist. And Sam leans down, leans into the heat of the angel's groin – nips at Castiel's jaw, at his wonderfully flushed throat, still too aware of the possibility of rejection to go for his lips.

Castiel whines, twists and wriggles under Sam's weight, but it's not a "No," not until Cas is pushing at his shoulders and panting his name, trying to get his attention. And there's a moment when Sam's on this precipice, looking down at himself, the way he has Cas pinned to the couch. It's surprising and a little disturbing – he's so much bigger than Cas, and yeah Sam is accustomed to being larger and stronger than his partners, but this is _Cas_ , angel of the Lord, powerful and terrifying and now helpless beneath him.

"Shit," Sam gasps, jerking away. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to –"

Castiel's hand tightens on his shoulder, more strength left in him than suggested by his slight frame. "Sam," he says, firm, "it's okay."

"No," Sam shakes his head even as Cas is pulling him back down, drawing him in close, lips parted, breath warm and moist and sharp with the taste of beer.

"Sam," Castiel says again, and this time it's scolding, the same tone he would have taken as an angel, when he found the humans in his charge to be exceptionally dense. He tilts his chin up, now, scrapes his lips against Sam's and it's not electric but the contact tingles, warm and fuzzy straight down Sam's spine. "Perhaps," Castiel murmurs into his mouth, "we should move to the bedroom?"

Sam's heart is a wild horse in his chest, rearing and kicking and galloping into the sunset. All of a sudden he's more alive than he's felt in years, and he laughs, delirious with joy, high on the oxygen he sucks too fast into his lungs. He doesn't have words, nothing he can say that wouldn't sound like he's lost the better part of his faculties. So he grins, kisses Cas hard – clambers to his feet and reaches down for _his_ angel.

Castiel makes a startled "oof" as Sam scoops him up in a bridal carry. It's a ridiculous gesture and even Cas seems to realize it, rolling his eyes at Sam in an expression of humble mortification he could only have learned from Dean. 

"Is this really necessary?" Castiel wonders, kicking his feet in half-hearted protest.

Sam places another kiss on Castiel's temple, savors the smell of his hair. "Humor me."

*

The bedroom is small and cluttered, college textbooks intermixed with arcane tomes and secret histories. A sawed-off leans in the corner, loaded with two rounds of rock salt – a dreamcatcher hangs over the bed – salt on every windowsill, devil's traps on the ceiling and under the rug. Sam might not be hunting with Dean and Castiel anymore, but he's also not stupid enough to believe he can ever really leave the life behind.

He drops Castiel on the bed just to watch him bounce. The angel shoots him a killing look, but Sam can only laugh, still too dizzy with the thought that he has Cas here, now, and better – he's allowed to _do things_ to him.

Sam wants Castiel on his hands and knees, but Cas hisses when he tries to manhandle him into position. Sam whines, can't help but feel rejected – he climbs on top of the angel, pushes his hips into Castiel's and clutches at his biceps. He holds on like he thinks Castiel's going to fly away, runs his hands down slender arms –

And then his hand hits the cast, and Castiel whimpers, squirming in an attempt to sidestep the hurt. Sam jerks away like he's on fire, cursing his big, stupid hands. "I'm sorry," he gasps, "I forgot..."

But Castiel just rolls his eyes, smiling soft and faint to hide the pain as he sits up and removes his shirt. "There's no need to apologize," he assures Sam. "Your enthusiasm is...flattering."

Sam feels his face flush up and down past his neck, but even the hot rush of shame can't stop the way his eyes rake over Castiel's body. Lean, utilitarian muscle fixed to bone, not a trace of fat, new scars still pink on his arms and the raised white lines of the banishing sigil forever written on his chest: Sam reaches out for it, traces it with his fingers. Castiel shivers under his touch, still hyper sensitive after two years, but he doesn't pull away.

And that's the moment when Sam realizes that everything Castiel did during the Apocalypse was as much for him as it was for Dean. The angel leans back against the wall, eyes half-lidded with want, hands falling down between his legs to work his belt open. 

"Sam," he says, and his voice is so low it sounds like it's going to break apart. "You're supposed to take your clothes off, too."

Sam will definitely follow Castiel's advice...in a moment. First he has to deal with the ridiculous pulse of affection suddenly throbbing beneath the surface of his skin. He grabs Castiel by the ankles again, pulls until he lies flat on the mattress, helpless on his back with his jeans bunched around his knees. Sam removes the offending article with another swift tug, and then he has to stop and stare because he has Cas laid out before him like a creature he might've dreamed into being.

Sam undresses quickly after that, anxious to feel Castiel's skin against his own, to drag his nipples over the ridges of Castiel's scar. He descends on the angel with a kind of perfect madness, physical need and heart-desire igniting in the crucible of his ribcage. Castiel wriggles beneath him, anxious and unexpectedly needy. And when Sam presses down, Cas opens his legs in answer, both their cocks sticky with precome, hard and ready.

Sam reaches for the pillows piled against the wall, long arm allowing him to draw them around Castiel without breaking the seal of their mouths. And this time, when he turns Cas onto his front, he's gentle, sliding the pillows under his hips, under his chest and head. Castiel sighs, nestles into them, his broken hand cradled in the soft swell of a decorative cushion.

And now that he has Castiel positioned and comfortable, Sam can get down to business. He wants to take his time, take Castiel apart piece by piece, put him back together again and make him whole. He caresses Castiel's shoulders, the winged edge of his scapula – loves the way his hands look, cupping Castiel's slender ribcage – loves how he can feel Castiel's lungs expand when he sucks in a desperate breath.

"So beautiful," Sam says, knows the words are cheesy and embarrassing as they're coming out of his mouth but can't do a damned thing to stop them. He kisses his way down Castiel's spine, busies his lips with the rise and fall of vertebrae in hopes of preventing any other absurd confessions.

Castiel makes a curious noise, a muffled, "Uh..." into a pillow. And Sam has to remind himself that the angel learned about intimacy from Dean, which is to say, not at all.

"You _are_ ," Sam finds himself murmuring into the small of Castiel's back, tonguing at the sweat that has begun to gather there. "And I don't just mean this body –"

"Sam."

He has his hands on the angel's ass, now, each one gripping and spreading flesh, prying into places unholy. But he still stops – still manages to tear his eyes away to meet Castiel's gaze, tossed back over his shoulder.

"Don't talk," Cas says firmly. "I find your voice..."

"Grating," Sam finishes for him, feels the excitement turn dark and bitter in his gut. "I know."

Castiel sighs, drops his head back to the pillow. "That's not what I was going to say."

Sam tenses, can't help the sudden thought that this was a bad idea. "Then what?" he demands, his voice rough, now, his hands on Castiel's hips, grip bruising as he tugs the angel up to his knees, grinds lewdly into the cleft of his ass.

And it's shocking and amazing, the way Castiel groans, the way his muscles go loose and willing, his body so pliant laid out beneath Sam. "I meant..." He cuts himself off with a gasp, trembling as Sam bows over him to drag teeth over the back of his neck. "Shut up and _fuck me_ , Sam Winchester."

Sam shudders at the command in Castiel's voice, and he suddenly gets it – Castiel doesn't want to be coddled, he doesn't want to be told he's beautiful and loved (no matter the truth in the words). He wants violence and pain because, after everything he's seen and done, it's all that makes sense. Castiel is so like Dean it hurts something in Sam's chest, because he knows better, he can see the angel with the same eyes that have witnessed terror and atrocity. He thinks he knows enough to recognize the difference between good and evil, even if the good is broken and maimed. He knows that Castiel deserves better, deserves tenderness and understanding. But it's not what he wants.

Sam reaches across the angel's back to dig through the nightstand until he finds condoms and a bottle of lube. He doesn't try to hold up his own weight, enjoys the way that Castiel grunts and huffs, pinned beneath him. 

"Hush," Sam scolds, pulls back enough to lay a firm slap to Castiel's ass. A healthy red flush spreads from the point of contact, a pale handprint that lingers only a moment before the blood comes rushing up to the surface.

And even though Castiel is squirming and impatient beneath him, even though his own cock is hard and aching between his legs, he takes his time opening Castiel up. He works one slick finger in at a time, weight balanced precariously on his free hand as he sucks and bites at the angel's neck. Castiel makes an irritated noise, tries to buck back onto Sam's fingers, but the pillows cradling the length of his body provide no leverage, and he can only wriggle and whine helplessly.

Sam pulls back enough so that he can look down at Castiel, marvel at the pink hue of his skin, wrap one hand around a jutting hip bone and squeeze. "Are you ready?" he murmurs low, knowing what he must sound like. Because Castiel is like sex incarnate with his sweat damp hair and his lips parted, eyelashes fluttering just above the rise of his cheekbones. Castiel makes Sam feel a little like the fresh meat on a porn set, nervous and over-eager. 

But then Castiel says his name, soft and desperate, and Sam realizes that like this, he has all the power. Maybe once Cas could've killed him with a thought, but now the angel is thin and human and pinned beneath Sam, hips tilted in invitation. Sam exhales, tries to keep calm as he gives his cock one more quick pull with a lube slippery hand.

And then he's lining up and pushing in, using his ring finger to try to hold Cas open because he's still so fucking tight and Sam's not one to brag, but he's not exactly _small_. Castiel breathes out, expels the air from the bottom of his lungs, the way Dean taught him to breathe through the pain of stitches. Sam stops, barely half way in, and stares at the angel's back – wonders, perversely, if Dean taught him this, too.

"Sam," Castiel pleads, "don't stop."

Sam hangs his head, works to steady the rasp of oxygen in and out of his chest. "I don't want to hurt you."

Castiel hisses through clenched teeth. "I'm all right. Keep going."

Sam closes his eyes, bows over the angel's back and rests his forehead in the warm valley between Castiel's shoulders. He can taste sweat, feel it warm and moist on his cheek as he turns his face to the side – can feel the tickle of soft, fine hairs raised from the surface of the skin – imagines the brush of downy feathers where an angel should sprout wings.

He pulls out an inch or so before continuing the slow, deep penetration. Castiel lifts his head from the pillows, neck arching back, eyes screwed shut and mouth open and gasping like Sam's running him through with a hot blade. But Sam doesn't stop, biting down on his own lip against the heat and the pressure, keeps pushing until his pelvis is seated firm against Castiel's ass, balls touching. And then he breathes.

"Mmm," Castiel says, shifts a little, circling his hips and Sam can't help staring at the spot where their bodies are connected. He's inside Castiel, the angel hanging off his cock, open and ready to receive.

Sam doesn't wait for verbal confirmation – he knows Castiel doesn't want to have to give it, expects Sam to simply _know_ his body and his limits without being told. So Sam begins to move, measured thrusts quickly picking up pace as Castiel's muscles loosen around him, lubricant easing the way. 

And the angel makes a half strangled noise, buries his face in a pillow, fingers of his good hand clenching and unclenching in the blankets.

Sam leans down far enough to breathe over Castiel's ear, to catch the cartilage between his teeth and give it a gentle tug. "That's it," he says, "you're doing good."

Castiel's panting now, short and desperate, struggling with what's happening to him, the way Sam's rhythm builds faster and harder. "I thought I told you..." But he loses the words in a cry as Sam hits his prostate, blue eyes opening wide, surprised and awed and then slamming shut like he's trying to hold the pleasure in. "Shut up," he grunts into the pillow. "Shut. Up."

But suddenly, Sam doesn't want to keep his mouth shut. He hates the way Castiel closes his eyes and tries to hide his face in the crook of his arm, hates the way the angel is almost _coaching_ him, hates what it could mean. He leans back, pulling Castiel up off the pillows and onto his knees – holding the angel's hips steady – snapping his own back and forth at a pace too punishing to be good for either of them.

"Say my name," Sam growls. The register of his own voice, and the threat it implies, surprises him, stirs something dark and dangerous in the pit of his stomach, a memory of blood and betrayal.

Castiel chokes, on his own voice, pushes up onto his elbows. Sam almost doesn't see it, when the angel jerks his head in sharp denial, not lowered and hidden from him the way it is.

Sam grabs a fistful of dark hair, yanks Castiel's head back at an unnatural angle. "Don't _hide_ from me," he spits. "Say my name."

And one vicious, well-aimed thrust crumples Castiel, makes him cry out, makes him twist and wrench his head in an attempt to break Sam's grip.

Sam obliges him, untangles his fingers from Castiel's mess of hair and watches as his head falls to the pillow, as he pants and gasps. And Sam doesn't give him any warning, just pulls out, his cock still agonizingly hard, still throbbing and smearing lube and precome all over the crevice of the angel's ass.

Castiel winces, glances back over his shoulder, slurs the beginnings of a question.

But Sam doesn't give him time for it – uses his size and strength and position to flip Castiel over, onto his back. And then he's plunging back into the space between Castiel's spread legs – _Castiel_ , who groans like he's going to fucking die on Sam's cock.

And even like this, driving in and out and watching as Castiel struggles to school the muscles in his face, grimacing his pleasure, is not enough – Sam can feel the warmth pulling low in the small of his back, can feel it rolling forward toward the root of his cock, but it's creeping along too slow.

Sam slides his arms beneath Castiel's, wraps them around his chest and _lifts_. And the angel doesn't seem that heavy, seems light like air as Sam pulls him close. He inches forward on his knees, Cas balanced in his lap, legs splaying out around his waist...precarious and awkward and Sam can't hold the pose for much longer, not when Cas isn't helping _at all_. He throws his weight forward – slams Castiel into the wall where he never bothered to install a headboard – smiles to himself, pleased, when the air rushes out of the angel's lungs in a startled gasp.

Like this Castiel can't move, can't struggle, can only ride out the ugly turn in Sam's desire. Pinned between the wall and Sam's body, he doesn't try to look away again, just lets his head flop back, blue eyes rolling up to Sam's.

"Say my name," Sam growls, grabs Castiel's wrists and slams them both, even the broken one, against the wall above his head.

And Castiel's mouth opens, tense and desperate as he comes, Sam's name strangled somewhere in the back of his throat.

*

Castiel is wrecked, bruised and sticky with sweat and other less savory bodily fluids. Sam sits on the edge of the bed and watches him, watches the way he sinks into sleep like a drowning man who's given up the fight. When Sam trusts his own sex-wobbly legs enough to carry him to the bathroom, he gets a washcloth and wipes the angel down until only the bruises on his back remain.

Sam doesn't sleep, not really – drifts in and out of consciousness beside Castiel, whose rest is deep but fitful. Sam watches the sun come up through the window, watches the way it plays out across the bed, over Castiel's legs. The angel draws one knee up toward his chest, tucks his chin against it. He sleeps like Dean, too.

Sam has an exam today, but if there's one thing he's learned surviving the Apocalypse, it's to recognize the difference between what everyone thinks is important, and what actually is.

*

Dean calls around noon, when Sam has just started to doze off. He grabs his phone where it vibrates on the bedside table and steps out onto the balcony.

"Sam," Dean says, sounds hoarse and desperate, like he's spent the night yelling at the heavens. "Have you talked to Cas?"

Something twists painful in Sam's gut. "He's here," he says. "Showed up late last night."

Dean sighs, relief and exhaustion mingling in his voice like the arrival of evening on the beach. Sam's not imagining it, but he wishes he were, the rush of, "Thank God," that breathes through the phone. It passes just as quickly, turns rough and angry, familiar Dean-gravel. "Put him on."

Sam glances back inside, sees the lump under the sheets where Castiel lies. "He's sleeping."

"He's..." Dean hesitates. "Oh. Okay." The anger bleeds out of his voice. "He doesn't do that enough, you know. Sleep."

Sam swipes a hand over his face. Everything hurts. He's hungover, sick, guilt-ridden. "Yeah," he murmurs, "I figured as much."

"Look, it's going to be a couple hours before I can get there." Dean sounds apologetic. "Keep an eye on him for me?"

Sam nods, doesn't realize right away that his brother can't see him through the phone.

Dean dutifully fills the silence. "We can all get dinner or something."

*

They don't get dinner – Dean doesn't even stick around long enough for a beer. Apparently he got a call from Bobby on the road, and now he and Cas have got to put a stopper on a werewolf situation before the moon completes its cycle.

Sam swore to himself he wouldn't watch them drive away, but he's not really one for will power, these days. He stands on the balcony – watches the way Cas hesitates a couple paces away from the Impala, stalled while Dean tosses his duffle into the back.

And Sam watches when Dean goes back to Castiel – when he rubs his hands up and down the angel's arms – when Cas slips into his embrace like coming home. Castiel is shaking his head, and Sam thinks he might be crying, the way he tucks his face into Dean's neck. But Dean just hushes him, smoothes his fingers back through dark, shower-damp hair, lays a kiss to his temple.

Sam woke Castiel up that morning with a soft touch to his cheek and the briefest press of lips to his brow. For a moment Castiel stared up at him in sleep-addled confusion, but then the previous night came back to him, and his eyes widened in shame. "Shit," he started, "Sam I'm so..."

But Sam didn't want apologies then, and he doesn't want them now as Castiel sinks into the passenger seat of the Impala. 

He glances back once, his eyes catching Sam's up on the balcony, and there's a little knowing in the flash of blue, a little danger. 

Dean turns the key in the ignition and the engine roars to life, tearing out of the parking lot like Hell's still hot on their heels. But Sam sees the way Castiel smiles, and he can't help smiling back.

Their secret, then.


End file.
